


Continental Breakfast Not Included

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hotels, Post-Mission, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: Sam had definitely asked for separate beds, but they had been driving since before sunrise, and it was almost midnight.





	Continental Breakfast Not Included

“Oh hell no, I definitely asked for a - ”

“It’s fine, I’ll take the floor,” said Natasha, already balling her jacket into a neat little pillow.

“Nat, no,” he said, levelling what he hoped was a stern gaze at her, but may not have made it beyond pathetic exhausted pleading. “We’ve been driving since before sunrise, and it’s - shit, it’s almost midnight. You’re taking the bed.”

“And what about you?” she asked, carefully unpicking her hair from the messy bun it had miraculously held since morning.

“ _I’ll_ take the floor,” he said.

“How the hell is that any better?” she asked him. “What makes you think I want to listen to you complaining about a stiff neck all day tomorrow? I’ve squeezed into smaller beds before. Come on.”

She had perched herself on the edge of the mattress, patting the space behind her. Sam had to admit she was right. They toed off their shoes and socks with barely a word, and he lay down, as close to the edge of the bed as possible, and closed his eyes for the night.

It was always either too warm or too cold in hotels, no matter how you tried to set the thermostat. This was a room that ran cold, and Sam knew by an hour into attempting to sleep, he would be alternating between hauling the blanket around himself like a sad little coccoon, and kicking it all off in an exasperated sweat, and so on, and so on. Natasha, however, had already claimed her stake of the duvet and held fast, such that Sam was left grasping at what scant inches were left. And so it went until he was just about to fall asleep, when:

“You smell good,” she said quietly into the dark. “What is it?”

“Uhh, apricot,” he said, and he was sure he was blushing. “Thanks.”

“I like it,” she said, and he was sure he could hear a smile.

“Try to get some _sleep_ , Romanoff,” he said.

But she was already gone, mumbling something that melted into a soft snore. This was nice, he thought. Oh shit, this was really nice. Oh hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com), but I liked it, so I'm sharing it here too.


End file.
